


William Schofield Dies at the End

by MarionetteFtHJM



Series: The 1917 Vintage Collection [2]
Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, Fix-It of Sorts, Happy Ending, It gets soft by the end no worries, Love Confessions, M/M, No beta we die unlike william schofield and thomas blake, Scho cant die, Suicide, Temporary Character Death, There's a lot of crying, They're Gay Let them Live
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-23 05:23:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23006425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarionetteFtHJM/pseuds/MarionetteFtHJM
Summary: William Schofield Dies at the End - and in the beginning, and in the middle. Doesn't mean that the deaths stick, though.
Relationships: Tom Blake/William Schofield
Series: The 1917 Vintage Collection [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1710985
Comments: 13
Kudos: 112





	William Schofield Dies at the End

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so im basically reusing one of my own plot devices from a south park fic and this is basically just scho as kenny bc i felt like it and im putting off finishing all of my other wips for other fandoms! Hi! If you feel like something more poetic check out my other 1917 fic and if u want some scho angst and then dialogue-oriented fluff proceed forward!

Ever since he was a little boy, William Schofield had an uncanny penchant for getting himself into trouble. And this trouble wasn't the standard run of the mill trouble like skinned knees, apple stealing or scuffles with the neighbourhood boys. No, his sort of trouble was more sinister in nature.

The first time it happened, William Schofield found himself a witness to a murder at the tender age of 9. Found himself as collateral in said murder not even ten minutes after appearing at their neighbour’s doorway. Then found himself back in his bed in the morning like he hadn’t been stabbed through the heart by the murderer that had taken Misses Kilkenny’s life only four houses away from his own. He’d tried telling his mother, pleaded with her to believe him but she’d just shushed him and sent him back to bed because he’d been running a high fever. At such a young age, Will couldn’t rebel against her. So he did what she asked. He went back to bed and thought about the shape of the man’s scared face, the blood splattered across his clothes and the knife in his hand.

With his mind young and resilient, he’d put it behind him easily, writing it off as a bad dream even if the pain had felt entirely too real.

He ignored his mother’s friends when they’d talked about the murderer getting caught over tea the next day. Ignored the detail spilled about how the man hadn’t remembered doing it; how the killer denied vehemently that he’d even been in the house at the time of the murder. It was odd but, ultimately, none of his concern. 

Then, the very next year, William Schofield, aged 10 this time, found himself in the middle of a bank robbery. This time he was there with his grandfather clutching at his shoulders, another three people in the bank and two behind the counter to witness his demise. And he knew, standing then and there, grasping at his grandfather’s sleeve like a lost child – he knew he had nothing to be afraid of. Some deep part of him knew what he needed to do, so on that hunch, he’d stepped away from his grandfather like the brave little bastard ( _the stupid little bastard_ ) that he was and threatened the robbers with all his might. He’d gotten shot mercilessly for his efforts, of course. He’d gotten shot and bled out on the floor of the bank – watched himself bleed out on the floor of the bank as he stood next to his dying body in all of his ghostly glory. He’d looked to the side when he noticed the looming figure with bony hands gripping the scythe standing there and took in a startled gasp.

That was the first time he’d realized the extent of what this all meant; the reality of it all, the _heaviness_. The hooded figure, that he’d later come to know as the Reaper, then took his hand and lead him back home. He’d played with the pale bones and giggled as they made noise when the hand moved in twitching motions. The cloaked figure put him to bed, tucked him in and closed his eyelids for a night of blissful dreams.

Just like last time, he’d woken up with a start, small hands clammy and eyes wide.

 _‘What do you mean you didn’t pick up the deposit?’_ He’d heard his mother ask her father from where he was crouched next to the kitchen doorway listening intently.

 _‘I could have sworn I was at the bank yesterday but then – I don’t know. I just went home. I’m sorry, dear; my old age must be catching up to me’._ His grandfather had chuckled easily and that was the first time Will had thought _I saved those people by dying._

But, it certainly wasn’t the last.

Bad situations kept finding Will through his life and all he could do was take the fall, make whoever it was that did it forget what they were about to do and go on with his life. He’d gotten rather good at recognising when these situations were about to arise. He learned to put himself in the line of fire and spur the bad people into action with harsh words that eventually lead to his death. Over and over again.

It never hurt any less and it never failed to give him nightmares, but at least the Reaper was always there to cart him back to the land of the living personally.

The imposing figure never spoke. It never grew any smaller no matter how tall Will got but he’d stopped holding the bony hand around the age of 12 when he decided that he’d grown too old for feeble gestures of comfort. The figure showed up no matter where or when or how he was killed and without a fail lead him home, leaving behind the ones who witnessed his death to their forgetfulness and missing memories.

And over time, he learns how to anticipate it, how to recognize when it’s coming.

But all of his heroics aren’t without consequences.

Being aware of death at such a young age had put a strain on him and he’d transformed from a cheery child always chirping something to his mother to a shy, quiet kid that more often than not could be found reading thick books about various subjects. The toll it took, dying that much, was something that distanced him from other people, put a barrier between him and the others without him even realizing it until he was left estranged from even his older sister and his mother. It was easier not to talk to them than to try and explain why he was often so spooked and why he slept so little, why he always looked so drained and shaky. It was hard to maintain a sane mind when he’d spent so much time watching his own blood being drained out of his body and talking about it with anyone would surely speed up the process of him losing it completely. 

And he’d died a lot by the time he was 18. He could have possibly avoided some deaths but that would mean letting those around him die in his stead – a lesson he’d learned the hard way. He didn’t like thinking about that day at the farmer’s market and the men with the bats and the knives. He’d gotten away that day but – but at the cost of most of the people attending the market that morning. He never avoided a death after that again

He doesn’t know why such an ailment had befallen him but what he does know is that death doesn’t stick when it comes to him.

And then the war happens.

And somehow, death evades William Schofield more than it ever has.

* * *

He survives the Somme. He survives despite expecting to get hit by a shell the moment he steps out of the trenches. And somehow nothing even grazes him. People around him fall dead, the ones he shoots at fall dead, the trees on fire fall dead but he remains the last man standing.

He curses the day that the Heavens first spat him out and back into the world.

He gets promoted and put in the Eighth. He spends the first few weeks keeping his distance from everyone, still expecting something bad to happen. He sits alone, eats alone, keeps watch alone. Maybe there’s no room in the army for cursed men. Maybe this is where it all stops and the next time he dies will be the final time, the last death to end it all.

Only one way to find out.

He puts a pistol to his head and pulls the trigger near the river in the forest behind their lines and far enough from the trenches that nobody will hear the shot ring out.

The Reaper is there at a moment’s notice, arms crossed and somehow managing to look disappointed despite not having a face to express it with.

“I had to check.” He says, defensive despite it all.

He wakes up leaned against the trench wall where he was supposed to be keeping watch. He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, some things never change.

He meets Lance Corporal Thomas Blake the next day.

Lance Corporal Thomas Blake is bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, still round in the face and a little stocky in figure – fresh out of training and still so naive. Well, naive enough to try and make friends with Will, anyway.

“You been out here long?” Blake asks him after three days of staring at Will like he was a particularly difficult jigsaw puzzle that he had to solve.

“Long enough.” He grumbles back, crossing his arms over his chest to stave off the chill in the air. France in December wasn’t particularly welcoming to life forms without thick fur.

“Some o’ the other lads said you were at Somme.” Blake settles down next to him despite Will trying to glare him away.

“I was, yeah.” He thumbs the medal inside his pocket, thinks about how he’ll trade it in for something actually useful once he gets leave.

“Hear it was hell on earth.” Blake mumbles, still eyeing him warily but with curiosity spilling out of his ears.

“Wouldn’t know, haven’t been there yet.” He smiles down at himself at his own joke, smiles despite the bitterness that fills him at the unfairness of it all.

Unfortunately, a smile was all that had taken for Blake to appoint himself as Will’s shadow from that moment on.

Despite his annoyance, Will never speaks up about it. He lets Blake trail after him, lets the other chatter and yap about whatever it is and eventually, he starts to listen. Eventually, he starts paying attention to what Blake is saying – to his smooth tone, to his witty remarks and even his spun tales of other soldiers and those that are simply about his home.

And from the moment he starts paying attention, Blake becomes the centre of his pitiful little world.

* * *

He hates how easy it was to let Blake in. After years of driving people away for their own good, it was entirely too easy to let Blake get close to him. It was too easy to let Tom lean against him when he’s tired, to let the other steal food from him or to let Blake keep him up at night with his stories.

“And then _bam_ down he goes like a pear from the tree, arm broken and wailing for mom to go get help. Like I hadn’t told him exactly what would happen.” Blake chuckles and Will allows himself to smile, enjoying the sun on his face as the other talks about his brother. They lapse into silence as Tom prepares for another anecdote, something that will surely make Will even more fond of him.

“Hey, Scho?” When he speaks, Blake’s voice is unsure, a little shy and entirely too out of character for him.

He cracks an eye open, looking to the side where Blake is sprawled in the grass. “Hm?”

“D’you have any siblings? I know you don’t really like talking about your home but – you know. I'm a curious guy.” Blake grins at him, cheeks red and still round despite the meagre rations they receive.

He closes his eyes to avoid the strength of the blue gaze. “An older sister. We’re not really close.” _We were but then I pushed her away until she gave up on me,_ he doesn’t add even if the urge to spill his guts to Tom grows stronger by the minute.

“Oh,” Blake mumbles, “Were you lonely as a child?” The other then coughs, very suddenly and violently, causing Will to startle and look at him. “Shite, sorry, that was insensitive! I didn’t mean to blurt that out!” Blake amends, sitting up now, looking sheepish and remorseful.

Will grimaces, hands tugging at the blades of grass next to him. “It’s fine.” He swallows, wondering how to go about this without sounding like he’s cracked. How does one tell their friend that the closest thing he’s ever had to a childhood companion was the Reaper that took him back home every time he died?

“I like reading. I spent a lot of time with books when I was young. She was always more outgoing than me and I didn’t like being around other children.” It’s not the complete truth but it’s not a lie either. It’s all that he’s willing to share, though, so he hopes Blake will leave the topic alone.

“Must be why you put up with me, then.” Blake’s grin stretches impossibly. “I'm the best replacement for books out here, an endless stream of stories and horseshit.”

He rolls his eyes fondly, chuckling as Blake beams at him like a particularly proud puppy.

He’s almost _afraid_ at how endlessly endeared he is. Will thinks of death in very loose terms. He doesn’t fear it, doesn’t anticipate it and therefore has very few fears when it comes to dying. But he knows that what’s brewing under the surface, what’s about to boil over inside him, this _affection_ for Tom he has, is dangerous for the younger. Will may not fear death but Tom’s terrified of it.

Blake shakes every time they’re being shelled, his hands tremble around his rifle each time he has to shoot, he huddles close to Will on nights where dogfights rage on in the sky. Will doesn’t blame him. Blake is young enough to want to live through this war, he wants to go home to his mother and brother and their dog, Myrtle. It’s sweet and very idealistic of him to think that this war will end. In all honesty, Will hopes that it does – if not for the country’s sake then for the sake of Thomas Blake’s innocence and sanity.

“I never had many friends either. It was mostly me an’ Joe.” Blake shrugs. “I was a loud little bastard, annoying, the other kids – well, you know what they say. Children can be cruel.” The Lance Corporal chuckles sadly and Will’s heart jolts inside his chest with a sudden and lurching movement that has him wincing inwardly.

“Can’t say I’m better company than none.” He meets Blake’s honest eyes then, determined.

The other’s smile blossoms from the uncertain line of his mouth and into the wide grin he’s come to know and seek out on hard days in the trenches. “Naw, don’t worry, Scho. I’m just glad you’re here with me. You know,” The other waves a hand around, a blush rising to his cheeks. “The way you are, quiet and calm. It’s – comfortable.”

He’s determined, alright, determined to do anything to keep Thomas Blake safe and sound and see with him the end of this _Great_ war.

* * *

_‘Pick a man’,_ they said, ‘ _deliver the orders and save 1,600 lives’,_ they said.

Will raises his head to the heavens and screams his curses at the vast sky as Blake bleeds out slowly in his lap. The tears that stream down his face his only witnesses in the yard of that thrice-damned farmhouse. And they’d been doing so well so far. They marched across No Man’s Land without anyone shooting them on sight and made it all the way here without dying outright – and now, well.

He’d turned around for a second, to fetch water for the fuckin’ Hun – and the ungrateful son of a cunt had – he stabbed Blake. And now Blake was dying in his arms and Will had failed to do what he had promised himself that he would do. He failed to save Tom. _This is because he saved me from the rubble, isn’t it?_ He questions silently. Blake had to be the bigger man; he had to save the enemy despite having seen the Dogfight that had been going on above them. Blake had to be the hero the damn hero.

“Am I dying, Scho?” Blake asks, choked and pained and Will can’t take it.

“No. No, you’re not. Not on my fuckin’ watch.” He growls lowly and clings to Blake’s form as he slowly becomes paler and paler, his eyes dull and lifeless. And when Blake’s pulse grows so still it’s almost gone entirely, Will takes the knife that had been in Blake’s gut and stabs hit through his own neck without hesitation.

He finds himself standing next to their dead bodies, panicked and looking around for the Reaper. When he spots the hooded figure on Blake’s other side and he hurries around the bodies.

“Please!” He shouts, “Please, you have to do something!” He pleads even though he knows it’s useless. The Reaper never speaks, it never shows sympathy and it never regards him for more time than it’s necessary to get him back to life. “Please, he didn’t deserve this! Take me instead, take me finally and leave him here, alive. Give him the curse, anything. He needs – he has to live. He has to go save his brother and the Second Devons, please!” He’s a blubbering mess at this point, on his knees as the Reaper remains unmoved.

“It’s not his time, please.” He tries again even though it’s futile.

A bony hand tips his head upwards and he meets the endless chasms that are the Reaper’s dark eyes. He can’t stare at them so he looks downwards where the mouth would be. But the Reaper doesn’t have a face; at least not a permanent one. The features keep shifting, never settling on one form for long but the eyes always remain deep pits of black. He feels sick even though he doesn’t have a stomach currently.

“William, dear.” The Reaper speaks. And the voice reverberates through Will’s soul so strongly that his entire being shudders.

“Please,” He whines pathetically, refusing to look over to the side where his dead body is still cradling Blake’s against his chest.

“You are willing to give it all up for him?” The Reaper asks, fingers trailing up his cheek and into his hair, face momentarily settling into that of a beautiful woman before shifting again rapidly.

“Yes. I’ve had my fair share of deaths. Please, he’s still so young, I – he needs to live.” He sobs and wishes he had more tears to cry but all that comes out are the wrecked and dry heaves from his chest.

“Why should he be spared when men out here die every day?” The reaper inquires gently, the tone almost a whisper now.

“Because he’s the only one I care about! I don’t fucking care for this war or these men fighting it! I care about Tom, I care that he lives to be happy again, I care for him more than I’d ever cared about anything!” He admits it finally, out loud and to himself. This year spent with Thomas Blake, despite the war and the threat of loss hanging over them constantly, has been the happiest of his life. And wasn’t that just plain sad?

“Very well.” The Reaper pats the top of his head gently and Will freezes. “You were always our favourite.” The figure admits in a voice that sounds so much like Blake’s that Will feels his non-existent stomach drop into his boots.

“Thank you.” He breathes out.

“Don’t thank me yet.” And _that_ , that sounds rather ominous. But Will doesn’t get to dwell on it as he finds himself lurching upwards in a dilapidated church that’s half on fire and half gone entirely. He looks around with frantic eyes until he spots the figure lying on the ground a few meters away from him. He scrambles forward on his knees and only calms when his fingers find the strong pulse thrumming through Blake’s body.

“Thank you,” He whispers reverently like a prayer. “Thank you so much.”

“Scho?” Blake’s voice is low and weak but it’s there and this means that he’s _alive_ so Will can’t ask for much more.

“There you are.” He smiles down at the other, helping him sit up.

“What? Where are we? What happened?” Blake looks around, wincing as he spots the part of the church that is on fire.

“Écoust.” He thinks. “We ran in here to hide from some Huns and you hit your head, dropped down like a sack o’ grain.” He chuckles weakly, hoping that Blake will believe him.

“Explains the massive headache, bloody hell!” Blake groans and Will remembers coming back the first time. How his head had pounded like it’d been split open and how he had been feverish the entire day, weak and unsteady on his feet when he’d tried to get out of bed.

“You’re fine, it’s alright.” He pats Blake on the chest heartily because he can’t go about hugging fellow soldiers now, can he?

“It’s nighttime.” Blake breathes out. “How long was I out?” And now he sounds panicked but Will knows that if the other tries to stand he’ll just fall over and Will himself is feeling too shaky to hold him up so he holds him down momentarily. But, but. They can’t loiter around here for much longer, they have to get out of this crumbling church and find the Second Devons. They still have a mission to complete.

“A while.” He gulps, looking away from Blake’s imploring and impossible blue eyes. “I – I didn’t want to leave you here without anyone to watch your back. We still have time before dawn breaks but we need to move.”

“Yes, right. Up we go.” Blake says, gripping his rifle but he doesn’t move – almost like he’s scared that he won’t be able to, like he knows something’s definitely wrong. And oh, how does Will even begin to explain to him why he feels like the earth beneath his feet isn’t solid or real? Why his body feels like it belongs to someone else?

He stands up first, shaky as predicted but determined. “There’ll be running involved, Blake. You sure you’re up for it?”

“Can’t bloody well stop now, can I? We’re too close to the finish line.” Blake tries to dust himself off futilely like he’d been clean before their supposed tumble in this church. _At least he’s not covered in blood._ “Fuck, can’t remember anything from after the farmhouse.” The other rubs a hand over his face and for the briefest of moments Will swears he sees red get smeared over the other’s pale skin.

He shakes his head, dispelling the image. He offers the other a hand and Blake allows himself to be hauled up. “Must be from the knock on the head. The helm protected you a fair bit but you still lost consciousness.” It feels bad lying to the other so blatantly like this but it’s what he needs to do so he’ll do it without complaint – but not without the taste of guilt coating the inside of his mouth.

“Right, good thing I had you with me, then, Scho.” Blake’s cheeks get a little pinker and Will looks away, tries not to think about how adorable he finds the sight. Tries not to think about how grateful he is to still be able to witness it happen.

“Yeah,” _You have no idea_ , he fights the urge to curl up in a ball and weep or worse – fall to his knees in front of the altar and thank the Reaper ten times over for giving him Blake back. No, for giving Blake another chance. “Let’s try and avoid similar situations in the future, though.”

Blake chuckles warmly, shaking out his arms where they’re presumably a little numb. “I’ll try.”

“Age before beauty,” He mumbles again as the other tries to poke his head out of the church entrance ahead of him. He pulls Blake back by his kit and the other stumbles with a whine. He surveys the surroundings and is sad to find that Écoust is nothing more than shelled out buildings engulfed in flames and dirt spattered with dried blood. He curses silently and starts to move.

They pass through the empty streets at a painfully slow pace because they can’t afford to get spotted. The progress is slow and in the end futile, too, because they get caught anyway.

He doesn’t even have enough time to raise his rifle before they’re being pelted by enemy fire. So they take off running through the streets that are being set ablaze with flames and bullets. 

“Shit!” Blake curses, dodging around a corner with the Huns hot on their heels.

They’re surrounded, he knows this. He knows that there’s no way the both of them are making it out of this. _Never died twice in such a short time._ They’re hiding behind some wall at the moment and the Germans will be upon them in seconds so he knows what needs to be done. He doesn’t, however, know if he’ll be coming back this time. But that’s fine – he’d been prepared for this outcome ever since he’d pleaded with the Reaper for Blake’s life.

He sees the drop off in the distance and sends out a silent prayer that they make it to the ledge overlooking the river.

“Come on, we just need to get into the river.” He urges, taking a deep breath and making Blake go ahead this time.

“Scho, I don’t think-” In the moment that it takes Blake to pause, consequently causing Will’s run to falter, an enemy soldier shoots between the buildings and clips the inner side of Schofield’s thigh. He screams, stumbling into Blake but never stopping, pushing him forwards. This will make things easier, this will only help drive Blake towards completing the mission.

“Scho!” Panicked and reedy, Blake’s voice cracks on the syllable.

“Go! Go, Tom, jump!” He pushes but Blake pushes right back, the enemies are gaining ground.

“No! I’m not leaving you here!” Blake’s eyes fill with tears that clean lines down his sooty cheeks.

“You have to go, I’ll be fine. I promise.” He tries to smile. “I’ll follow shortly; I have to tie something around the wound. Here, drop the kit, it’ll only slow you down.” He helps Blake get rid of his bag and everything that’s too heavy for him to carry into the river and then drops his own like he’s going to follow.

“Scho,” Blake whimpers and he surges forward, knocking their helms together.

“Trust me. I’ll be fine. Now go, come on. I’m right behind you.” He pushes and pushes until Tom’s standing at the edge and above the coursing river.

He’s fading fast, he can tell, his body feels colder already and he’s barely upright. Blake needs to move or he’ll –

A shot rings out past them in the night and Will pushes for the final time. Blake yells as he falls and Will can only watch as the strong current sweeps him away from the danger and from Will’s sights. He takes a deep breath and turns around, reloads the rifle and starts shooting. Once he’s out of bullets he steps out of his hiding place and out of his body as the falling shell of him gets mowed down by rapid fire from the Germans.

“Noble,” The Reaper comments, all too casual for the gravity of the situation.

“I do what I have to.” He shrugs and the Reaper waves a hand in the direction of the river as the sun starts rising.

They walk across it easily, making their way towards the Second Devons and to where Blake is – to where Blake is running perpendicular to the men emerging from the trenches, tears streaming down his face and a fierce scream leaving his mouth as someone knocks into him. He takes a shuddery inhale as a shell hits behind the running soldier, causing him to stumble but the Lance Corporal persists despite it. He watches, amazed, with his heart in his throat as Blake skids down to where Mackenzie is hiding. He did it; the damned stubborn little bastard did it.

“Oh, Jesus.” He breathes out despite not having the need to actually breathe while in this state. The Reaper chuckles and Will suddenly remembers what the shrouded figure had told him last time.

“Hey, um.” He clears his throat as they follow a stumbling Blake across the territory occupied by the Battalion. “Are there others out there that are like me? The – the undying or whatever.”

“Hm,” The Reaper produces a deep and rumbling sound that shakes the ground beneath them momentarily. “Yes.”

“What makes me special, then?” His eyes are glued to Blake as he frantically searches for his brother amongst the wounded but finds him alright and helping with the soldiers that weren’t as fortunate. Tom was wrong; Joseph Blake doesn’t look anything like him. He certainly looks older but there’s no one out there quite like Thomas Blake and Will would have overlooked the other’s brother if he’d seen him in a crowd anywhere else but he’d never be able to overlook Tom. Not his blue eyes or his pink cheeks, dark hair curling at the edges from humidity in the early morning and his lips-

“None use the gift as wisely as you. Most have only rarely sacrificed themselves for the safety of others. Fewer still would ever do something like this.” The Reaper’s voice flows over him like a warm caress, _pride._ A bony hand on his shoulder as Tom babbles through tears about their journey here.

“I just – I don’t want people to die.” He hugs himself for comfort even though he doesn’t feel it, not really. “I’ve always accepted it as a part of my life. As ironic as that is. And I know bad things happen if I don’t die so there’s no other choice. I’ll always save them if I can.”

“We know.” The bony hand squeezes briefly before disappearing.

“Is this it, then? Am I dead for good?” He walks after Blake as the younger goes over to sit by the lone tree in the tall grass, a scene so achingly familiar that it makes him weak in the knees.

“No. Not yet.” A promise. A promise that there _is_ an ending to whatever this cursed gift is.

“Scho.” Blake whimpers down where he’s sitting and Will wishes he could hug him fiercely and never let him go. He’s holding something in his hands and Will realizes that it’s the medal he’d pawned off months ago when they were both on leave. Blake had somehow gotten it back without Will knowing and Will – ah. 

“Oh, Tom.” He drops to his knees. It’s amazing that the other still remembers that he’s died. Usually, people will forget within moments but maybe it’s because Blake was further away when it happened. He should be forgetting any moment now. Schofield’s never tested the boundaries of this odd _power_ he has, he doesn’t know how it works. Those in his immediate proximity forget, that’s for certain, but he doesn’t know about the rest.

“Brave idiot,” He mumbles fondly and settles to sit in front of the other Lance Corporal. “Am I going to come to here?” He looks up at the Reaper and the looming figure nods. He sighs and allows himself to watch Blake unabashedly. He traces the lines of his frame with his eyes and revels in being able to do so freely for the first time ever. If he had a heartbeat it would be pounding in his ears right now.

He sits there and waits. He watches as the older of the brothers comes by with some food and water, as he comforts the younger. Hours pass and Blake sits there, mourning, fingers gripping the sharp edges of the medal until they bleed. And he doesn’t forget.

By the time the sun starts setting, Will is starting to panic. Tom is alternating between bouts of sniffling and outright crying and it tears Will apart inside to know that it will all be for naught because he’s coming back. But it’s fine. The moment he’s corporeal again, Blake will forget and Schofield will spin a tale about how he outmanoeuvred the Huns and found his way to the Second Devons on his own.

He feels it happening by sundown just as Tom starts babbling in grief again – he doesn’t pay attention, it feels wrong and intrusive so he tunes out the words best that he can. His heartbeat is the first to return then the dizziness and the headache. And then the feeling of hunger and phantom pains where he’d been shot. He inhales sharply as the pain in his leg makes him wince.

He rolls his shoulders and then meets Blake’s wide, terrified eyes. _Oh no_.

He doesn’t dare speak as Tom looks around, knees drawn towards his chest and hands gripping his knees. The younger reaches out to touch him and flinches back when he comes into contact with Schofield’s solid form. Then he starts screaming and Will lurches forward, a hand swiftly clamped across the other’s mouth to muffle the sound.

They wrestle on the ground but Blake doesn’t have enough strength in him to combat Will’s height and mass so he ends up pinning the other under himself. He hisses, shushing the younger, one hand still slapped over Blake’s mouth.

“Shh!” He repeats, “You’ll alert the whole camp! It’s me, stop screaming.” He says sternly, easing a little where his knees have been digging into Blake’s sides. The other’s form relaxes minimally but it’s enough for now.

“I’m going to remove my hand, please don’t start screaming again. I can explain. Sort of.” He promises and Tom nods his head so he slowly retracts his hand from the other’s face.

“Scho!” Blake chokes, eyes filling with tears again. “Scho, I thought you were dead! What the fuck!? How did you just – _how are you here?_ ”

“Come on, sit up.” He scoots back, sitting on the other’s knees in the dying daylight. “There we are, hi.” He grins but Blake just bursts into tears again. “No, shh, hey.” He pats the other’s shoulder awkwardly but the other is having none of it and Will finds himself with a clingy Blake attached to his torso in a crushing hug. “I’m fine, Blake. I’m alright.”

“The bullet clipped your artery, Scho. There’s not a mark on you – not even your hand.” Blake reaches out and thumbs the unmarred skin of Will’s right hand. And it’s true – Will has always remarkably lacked any scars. It was almost as if his body _resets_ every time he dies and comes back.

“You have to promise me – you have to promise you won’t think I'm crazy. Please, I-” He swallows the ‘ _I can’t lose you’_ that wants to leave him after the plea. Navigating this conversation is going to be extremely difficult.

“Scho,” Blake leans back to look him in the eye, “Scho, you’re here and not dead. If you’re crazy then I'm bloody insane!”

He chuckles at that, nodding, and in a moment of complete madness, reaches up and wipes the fresh tears that stain the other’s cheek. He falters when Blake’s left hand spasms where the younger’s still gripping his wrist. He clears his throat and tries to detach himself from Blake as casually as possible. He scoots back until he can tip to the side where he then sits surrounded by tall grass next to Blake.

But now that they’re sitting there in silence, he doesn’t know how to begin. He doesn’t know _where_ to begin. All he knows is that the longer he keeps quiet the sadder Blake looks. So he has to suck it up. _For Blake,_ he grips his bent knees, _always for Blake._

“I can’t die.” He winces at the poor choice of words.

“Scho.” Blake’s face crumples into a frown that looks out of place on him.

“Just – let me.” He scrubs his hands over his face, trying to gather his thoughts. “I can’t stay dead. I know you saw me die and I did die. I just – I don't stay dead.”

Something clouds over Blake’s expression then and – and Blake’s always been quick and bright so it’s no wonder that he gasps in horror. “This has happened before, hasn’t it? Scho... Will,” Blake stutters out his name like a prayer. “How many times?”

He closes his eyes against the nausea curling in his stomach because, well, because he remembers all of them. He can’t really count them at the moment but he remembers each pain like someone is flipping grain photos rapidly through his brain. “Too many times. Surprisingly, more before the war than here but. It’s happened a lot over the years.”

“Scho, how?” Blake pleads, tipping forward and onto his knees, his hands hovering somewhere between wanting to grapple at Will’s jacket and wanting to grip his face.

“I don't know. I just – one day I got stabbed for being a witness to my neighbour’s murder and then I woke up the next day and nobody even knew I died.” He shrugs, plucking a long blade of grass from next to him and tearing it to bits to give his hands something to do.

“How old were you?” Blake’s voice is harsh and near-silent.

“Tom,” He warns gently but the other just shakes his head, hands finally coming down to settle atop Schofield’s knees.

“I was nine years old.” He winces at Blake’s horrified gasp and then winces yet again as Blake, in an act of something that Will can’t name, clambers into his lap to start hugging him again.

“Blake, come on, it’s fine.” He tries not to let himself enjoy the hug too much but he still brings his arms around to hug the younger. “I'm used to it.” Tom freezes in his arms and he knows he’s said the wrong thing. “No, I mean – I have to die. It’s painful, sure, but if I don't then-”

Blake reels back, meeting his eyes in the bright moonlight and his expression is suspicious. “What happens if you don’t die?”

“If I somehow avoid it then – then someone else dies in my stead. Depending on the threat, it can be one person or up to a dozen.” He looks away, “But if I die, then whoever is involved in the situation forgets what they’d done or were about to do and they leave. Go on about their day like nothing happened.” He hopes that Blake doesn’t make the connection. But Tom is curious and he’ll ask more questions and eventually, he’ll realize.

“Is it always – is it always caused by other people?” Tom’s hands run up his arms to rest on his shoulders and Will realizes that the younger is still sitting in his lap like – like, _well._

“In one way or another. Maybe sometimes I push someone out of the way of an oncoming car or I get struck by lightning in someone else’s stead. Sometimes it’s because people are careless and I – well. I take the fall. But it’s alright, no, don't look at me like that.” He groans and tilts his head back, knocking the helm off in his rush to run a hand through his messy hair.

“Scho, that’s – I knew you were brave but this is – this is stupidly _noble_ , mate.” Blake grins, puppy-eyes staring at him like Will had hung the stars and the moon in the sky above them.

“Fuck off,” He grunts, ignoring the heat crawling up his neck and into his cheeks.

“Scho, this is huge! You – you’re a hero.” Blake bites at his lower lip and Will is only vaguely aware of the fact that he keeps glancing down at the other’s mouth. “You’re a hero and nobody even remembers-” Blake releases the lower lip as his mind finally makes the connection.

Will closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath, preparing for what comes next. “I remember. Why do I remember? Will... what happened?”

“You saved me in the German trenches, in the bunker with the rat. You pulled me out when I should have died.” He gives up trying to hold his head high and his forehead connects with Blake’s shoulder where he rests.

“Who died instead, Will?” Blake hushes, hands gripping the back of his jacket like his life is depending on it.

“You.” He stutters out, his breath hitching and his heart constricting. “At the farmhouse. You got stabbed and bled out.”

“I'm... dead?” And it hurts hearing the other say that, hurts hearing how loud the other’s pulse is.

“No, you’re not.” This time it’s him leaning back, hands coming up to cup the other’s cheeks. “I couldn’t let you die just because you saved me. You’re possibly the only fool braver than I am stupid.”

“Then how?” Blake whines, lower lip now wobbling and eyes on the verge of tears again.

“I asked politely and they brought you back.” He grins as Blake smacks him on the shoulder with an annoyed grunt. “It doesn’t matter how. What matters is that the Reaper brought you back because you died because you saved someone who didn’t need it and they – they brought you back.”

“This is insane, Scho, people don’t just resurrect! Are – are you _Jesus?_ Do I need to start praying again?” Blake rambles and Will feels his jaw moving under his palms that are still inexplicably on Blake’s face.

Blake frowns again, though, and Will really wishes the younger would stop thinking about it so hard. “You’re friends with the – the _Reaper?_ Like, the _Grim Reaper?_ ”

“I wouldn’t say friends but – they’ve helped me over time. They’re always nice to me and they get me back to where I need to be when it’s time to join the land of the living again.” He shrugs.

“Is that why we woke up in Écoust? Wait, how were you there as well? Will... what did you do?” Blake’s tone is chastising but his eyes still spill silent tears.

“I had to talk to them. I had to – I never see them when I'm alive so I just-” He shrugs again helplessly, no willing to admit what he’d done to get Blake back.

“You – God, Will.” One of Blake’s hands rushes up from his back and into his hair, petting him as if he were a child cradled in Tom’s arms. “That’s so fucked. I'm not going to lie, it’s also really hard to believe but – but, why me? Men die out here all the time, why’d you – for me?”

Those words again; _why should he be spared when men die out here every day?_ But he can’t answer it the same as he did to the Reaper – the implication of the words are much more damning now that he’s alive again. And he can’t admit it and then die because Blake now, apparently, remembers everything even after death.

“Because you’re my favourite.” He says instead. “You’re my friend and you didn’t deserve to die. You needed to find your brother and save the Second Devons and – _God_ , don’t get me started about you running along the trench line like that! Jesus, Blake, what the hell was that?!” He remembers suddenly, the feeling of dread that had engulfed him as Blake ran to stop the attack that had already started.

“Oh, uh. Um, sorry?” Blake smiles sheepishly, the hand in his hair petting him back into silence.

“Try not to end up dead again, yeah? Don’t know if they’ll grant me the wish a second time.” He pats the other’s cheek and finally releases his face. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since Blake had scrambled to sit in his lap but he supposes more than enough time has passed for it to be slightly inappropriate. He’s not complaining, not really, but it’s rather _odd._

“I'm your favourite _what?”_ Blake shoots back suddenly, hands idly fiddling with any part of Will's clothing they can reach.

“My favourite.” He shrugs, feeling his ears tingle from the heat. This is slightly mortifying. “You’re my only friend. You’re my best friend, Tom. I just – you know. You’re my favourite person out here and these other men – they didn’t risk their lives to save me, not really, not in the capacity that you did.”

“You – this is probably the most you’ve ever said to me at once.” Blake chuckles.

“I suppose I’ve realized that you don’t really know what you have until it’s almost gone.” It’s as close to an admission as he’s getting without someone dragging it out of him with torture. "I've realized i have to do better."

“Scho,” Blake’s hand grazes down from his hair to the side of his face until his soft palm is cradling his jaw. “Scho, they can’t touch you. Nobody can. You’re – you’re invincible.”

“Hardly.” He rolls his eyes. “I don’t ever know when it’s going to be my last death, when it’ll all stop and I-” 

“No, Scho.” Blake shakes his head. “Forgive me for being a little selfish here but I – ah.” The younger trails off, seemingly giving up on his thought. “You’re right. You still end up dead and it still hurts despite you coming back. Don’t mind me, that was a stupid train of thought.”

“What was it, though?” He’s fairly certain he knows but he doesn’t want to get his hopes up. He wants Blake to say it so that he doesn’t have to, so that he’ll have confirmation finally. His stomach erupts in a bubbly feeling as Blake bats his eyelashes bashfully at him.

“Come on, Scho. You’re not dense.” Blake looks down shyly and then shifts a little and Will realizes that his legs have gone a little numb under the other’s weight. “I was thinking about how we wouldn’t have had to be afraid but that – that’s fucked and I'm sorry for getting ahead of myself.”

“Ah, that. Um.” He feels like he can’t breathe. The thing is that Blake is right. They’re viably untouchable as long as Scho dies at the end. He doesn’t know how long it will last but they – if they’re careful it won’t need to be such a big ordeal. He also knows that Blake feels bad about even thinking of the unspeakable. He sucks in a sharp breath.

“No, you’re right. Fuck, Tom, you’re right.” He steels himself for what comes next. “I’ve thought about it, you know.” He admits slowly, “About how little this war has on me, about the low risks of me being here. I had no attachments, nothing scared me, I didn’t care. I went through the motions, day in and day out. And then you decided I was the most interesting fuck out there in the trenches and suddenly, just like that, I had a reason to care. I had something to lose.”

“Fuck, Will, I’ve done enough crying today.” Blake chokes out, scrubbing his free hand under his eyes.

“For the first time I have something to fight for. So please, no idiotic gestures of heroism in the future.” He nudges his head forward, nosing along Blake’s cheek.

“I'm sorry, I promise.” Blake’s breathing is shallow as he tilts his head up to meet his mouth.

It’s soft and quiet and innocent in its essence. It’s everything Will thought it would be and so much more. Blake squirms and mewls and Will deepens the kiss with determination. He explores and enjoys the way the other trembles in his lap and when they break apart for air he presses his face under Blake’s chin. He breathes out steadily and winces when he smells traces of gunpowder and blood on Blake’s skin.

“What now?” Tom asks, hands petting any part of Will that’s available.

“Now we fight. Last man standing and William Schofield next to him.” He grins as Blake laughs, overly loud and joyful but so pure and unrestrained that Will feels like it’s fresh water washing over him and washing away his sins. 

**Author's Note:**

> And as always you can find me on tumblr and twt @ marionettefthjm!


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